DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos listened – keen and observant, speculative and deciphering, calculating the angles, the quandaries, the inquiries mulling and musing about his mind. It sounded too easy, to breeze away and say the Voice would readily comply to something that could be detrimental to her kin – or that anyone could have faith in a being who’d already sent out monsters and plagues to the world. Survival and fortitude had cast him in a dubious, cynical cycle of existence – which might’ve been how he’d managed to endure anything at all.
The rumbling, answering tones were surrounded, pervading, in doubt and disbelief. “How do you know she will stay true to her word?” The Sword could picture individuals stripped down to nothing to defend themselves, while the Ascended maintained their prowess, their prestige, their abilities – permitting opportunities for endless massacres. It had already occurred in LongNight debacles.
He didn’t trust any of the sentiments; the vague wrinkle to his nose hint enough.
The rumbling, answering tones were surrounded, pervading, in doubt and disbelief. “How do you know she will stay true to her word?” The Sword could picture individuals stripped down to nothing to defend themselves, while the Ascended maintained their prowess, their prestige, their abilities – permitting opportunities for endless massacres. It had already occurred in LongNight debacles.
He didn’t trust any of the sentiments; the vague wrinkle to his nose hint enough.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
